


The Origins of Atramedes

by KatieSkarlette



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Artificial Insemination, Blindness, Dragons, Eye Trauma, F/F, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mad Scientists, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 17:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10813266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieSkarlette/pseuds/KatieSkarlette
Summary: Atramedes could easily have been culled after an experiment gone awry blinded him as a whelp, but Nefarian spared him.  Was it simply because of the potential for future experiments, or was there another reason?





	The Origins of Atramedes

**Author's Note:**

> An interlude between chapters 3 and 4 of my fanfic “By Any Other Name.”

Two young women stood nervously in a torch-lit stone corridor.  
  
One had short, curly hair and wore gray trousers with a fine turquoise blouse.  Her companion had straight hair that fell just past her collar, black trousers, and a tunic and boots of earthy brown. Both had jet-black hair.  
  
The latter began pacing, and the curly-haired woman grabbed her arm.  "Sootia, please, just…  Don’t assume the worst.“  
  
Sootia stopped and put her arms around her companion, resting her chin on her shoulder.  "I’m trying not to, Pedria, but Lord Nefarian doesn’t summon dragons to Blackrock Spire without a reason.”  
  
“Maybe it’s for a good reason!” Pedria said with forced optimism.  They stood in silence, swaying slowly together to calm each other.  
  
Thudding footsteps approached, and they turned to look toward the sound.  A four-legged dragonkin in burnished red armor came down the corridor. Despite their human appearance, he recognized the women for what they truly were:  black dragons.  "Lord Nefarian will see you now,“ he announced.  
  
The women locked eyes for a moment, took deep breaths for courage, and followed the guard.  He led them down another hallway, through a large, empty room, and out onto a long terrace.  
  
The figure known among mortals as "Lord Victor Nefarius” sat on a crumbling stone throne at the far end of the terrace.  An enchanted crown of flame floated above his head, casting an orange glow on his dark brown skin and polished armor.  He watched the women approach with an evaluating gaze.  
  
When they reached the foot of his dais, they both bowed and waited for him to speak.  
  
“Ah, Sootia and Pedria,” he said after a few tense moments.  "Thank you for answering my summons so quickly.“  
  
They straightened up and stared at him in trepidation.  
  
Nefarian snorted derisively.  "Oh, calm down.  I’m not going to do anything terrible to either of you.  Quite the opposite, if all goes as I hope it will.”  He rose from his throne and led them down a ramp deeper into the mountain fortress.  "Have either of you heard about my experiments with the chromatic dragonflight?“  
  
"Yes, my lord,” Sootia said.  
  
Pedria nodded.  She had her arm looped around Sootia’s, hanging on as if she expected someone to come by and tear them apart.  
  
“I’ve made some great advances working with eggs and…related matters.”  He ignored the salutes of dragonspawn sentries as he turned into his main laboratory.  "Behold…the future of dragonkind.“  
  
The two women gawked at the rows of test tubes, burners, beakers, vats, and crates.  "My lord, we know nothing about such matters,” Pedria said, looking vaguely revolted by the bits of horn, bones and talons lying in boxes.  
  
“You don’t need to.”  He checked the temperature of a simmering concoction of orange goop.  "This is actually tangential to the real reason I called you here.  My father grows impatient for me to produce a more reliable supply of heirs.“  
  
Sootia wrapped her arms around Pedria possessively.  "We’re not interested.  We are each other’s mates.”  
  
“I’m aware,” he said, nodding calmly.  "However, a match such as yours will not produce any offspring.“  
  
Both women opened their mouths to retort, but Nefarian continued before they could get a word in.  "Assuming you want to raise a family, I think I have a solution to both our problems.”  
  
“We won’t mate with you,” Pedria said vehemently.  
  
“I’m not asking you to.  I have no desire to mate with anyone other than my current consort, and I’m sure you two feel the same about each other.  But look around you.  Science has opened other doors. I can fertilize your eggs here in this lab.  No mating required.”  
  
“And then what?  You take the hatchlings and raise them here?”

“Let them decide for themselves.  If they wish to remain here and grow into the service of the legion of Blackrock, they will be more than welcome.  If they wish to go with you and be raised in a normal family, I won’t stop them.  You two will be able to have a brood of your own, and I will have more heirs to satisfy my obligation to the dragonflight.”

Pedria and Sootia looked intently into each other’s eyes, silently weighing the pros and cons.  
  
Nefarian straightened a row of specimen jars, keeping his back to them for a few moments.  "You don’t have to answer immediately.  Talk it over. One or both of you can participate.  There will be no repercussions if you refuse.“  
  
They whispered to each other for awhile.  Pedria looked more enthusiastic than her mate, but eventually Sootia nodded as well.  
  
"I’ll try it,” Pedria said, stepping forward with a nervous grin.  
  
Nefarian turned with a smile.  "Excellent.  I was hoping you’d be interested.“  
  
"Let’s just make sure we understand,” Sootia said, frowning skeptically. “Neither of us have to mate with you.  It’ll all be done artificially.”  
  
“Strictly artificial, in a sterile lab.  It would only take a few minutes per egg…much faster than doing it the old-fashioned way, I assure you,” he said with a smirk.  
  
His attempt at humor did nothing to soften Sootia’s expression.  "All right.  Say that works and the eggs hatch.  Then what?“  
  
"I would take in whichever whelps choose to stay with me, and you would raise the others.”  
  
“You’re not going to show up one day and take them all anyway?”  
  
“Sootia!” Pedria hissed, flashing an apologetic look at Nefarian.  
  
He gave a thin smile.  "A fair question.  No, I will not. You have my word.  Any whelps who are added to my brood this way will be more than I have now.  The only ones who live here at Blackrock will be those who choose to do so.“  
  
Pedria and Sootia looked at each other again, and the latter’s expression shifted to match the hopeful smile on her mate’s face.  
  
Pedria raised a hand to cup her cheek and leaned forward to kiss her tenderly. "I think you’d be a wonderful mother.”  
  
“I was about to say the same thing about you,” Sootia said quietly.  "What do you say?  Shall we raise a family together?“  
  
Pedria nodded, blinking back tears, and Sootia seized her in a vigorous hug.

* * *

Later that summer the first clutch of artificially fertilized eggs hatched in Pedria’s nest.  Months later, Sootia welcomed even more whelps.  Most chose to stay with their mothers, but some decided to join their half-brothers and -sisters at Blackrock and work toward the larger goals of the black dragonflight.

Regardless of where they were raised, all carried the blood of the Earth Warder.  Deathwing was satisfied with his eldest son’s efforts to provide heirs.  Sootia and Pedria were ecstatic to be broodmothers together.  And perhaps most significantly of all, the techniques Nefarian perfected for the process proved invaluable to his work on the chromatic dragonflight.  
  
Among the offspring who opted to join Nefarian at Blackrock Mountain was a bright and curious young whelp named Atramedes… 

* * *

* * *

_Two years later…_

It was a relatively quiet day at Blackrock Mountain.  Drakkisath was drilling orcish troops in the upper spire, the Dark Iron dwarves on the lower levels had been minding their own business, and no uninvited mortals had come snooping all week.  
  
The Lord of Blackrock sat on his throne in human form, trying to decide if he should take a nap or not. He hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the previous night thanks to a false alarm from the Omnotron Defense System.  For the hundredth time, he wondered if the dwarven security technology was worth the trouble.  
  
Nefarian massaged his forehead and leaned back in his seat.  Perhaps if he took a potion for his headache he could get something accomplished without wasting time on sleep.  
  
Just then a drakonid sentry stepped onto his balcony and announced, "Maloriak wishes to see you, milord.”  
  
Nefarian straightened his posture and raised an eyebrow.  He hadn’t seen the dragonsworn alchemist in many days, which usually meant he was absorbed in a new project.  "Send him in.“  
  
A scaled, lanky figure scurried toward him, various bottles and vials clinking on his belt.  
  
"Ah Maloriak,” Nefarian said.  "How gracious of you to finally appear from that quarantine you call a laboratory. What have you got this time?“  
  
"My sincerest apologies for the disturbance, my liege.  But I believe I have something you may be very interested in!”  
  
“By all means, enlighten me.”  
  
“Yes, yes!  By extracting agents from the blood of various dragonflights I have created a salve that bestows the wearer sight beyond sight! Sense beyond this realm of mortality!”  
  
Intriguing, but Nefarian knew better than to expect much from Maloriak.  As a human he had been one of the greatest alchemists of the age, but the process of turning him into a dragonspawn had addled his wits more than usual.  
  
“Atramedes!” Maloriak called over his shoulder.  "Your master beckons.“  
  
A small whelp came out onto the balcony, looking eager but nervous. Judging by the stony, dark-gray color of his scales, he was one of Pedria’s sons.  
  
"I present to you experiment number 25463-D!” Maloriak announced grandly.  Without further prelude, he opened a bottle of pumpkin-colored goo and splashed it in the whelp’s eyes.  
  
Atramedes reeled with a distressed screech, briefly glowing orange before regaining his balance.  He pawed at his eyes in a panic and then turned his head back and forth as if looking around.  His eyes were dull and unfocused, his pupils wide and fixed.  
  
Nefarian’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.  He knew a blind whelp when he saw one.  
  
He stood and stormed toward them, doing his best to keep his voice even.  "It appears as though your experiment has failed. That whelp has gone completely blind!“  He stopped in front of Maloriak, trembling with rage.  Although he was much shorter in his human form, they were both well aware of how deceiving that was.  He was the Lord of Blackrock and could snuff out the alchemist’s life in an instant if he chose.    
  
Maloriak’s mouth was moving but no words emerged.    
  
"Look at him,” Nefarian seethed, pointing to the disoriented whelp.  
  
Atramedes was clearly in shock, nearly hyperventilating.  
  
Fury reverberated through Nefarian’s body, and he grabbed Maloriak’s scaly arm, forcing him to face the whelp.  "LOOK AT HIM!“ he roared.  
  
"How could this be?” Maloriak wailed.  "I will dispose of him immediately!“  
  
_Yes,_ the Old Gods chorused. _Cull the weak.  Destroy the sniveling failure!  Smash him like an insect!_  
  
A sick feeling washed over Nefarian as he saw Atramedes’ reaction. The whelp flopped down on the ground and curled into a tight ball, covering his now-useless eyes with both paws as he gasped for breath.  
  
This was a child, as innocent as any black dragon could be.  Something in the forlorn peeping noises he was making triggered a memory of Romatria, pale and nearly powerless, looking to him for comfort during a thunderstorm.  
  
_Destroy the useless thing!_ the Old Gods insisted.  
  
_No!_ Nefarian thought back with a sudden ferocity that actually rendered the voices silent for a time.  "No,” he said, aloud this time.  "Not yet.  This object of your chagrin may still prove… valuable… to me.  Leave now, pathetic alchemist.  I anxiously await your next failure.“  
  
"Yes, my lord.”  Maloriak backed out of the room, bowing and scraping, well aware that his own life hung by a thread.  
  
When he was sure Maloriak was out of earshot, Nefarian knelt down and put a hand on the trembling whelp.  "It’s all right,“ he murmured. "No one’s going to hurt you any more.”  
  
He knew it was small comfort, for what remained of his conscience through the Old Gods’ influence reminded him that experiments would continue on other whelps from all five flights.  But this one had suffered enough.

“Atramedes, was it?  Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

The whelp was frozen in senseless terror, unable to move except to shake uncontrollably.  Distressed chirps came from his throat.  
  
Nefarian sighed in pity and scooped the quivering youngster up in his arms. "It’s all right,” he said again, knowing that it wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

Atramedes was still writhing in panic when they reached the laboratory. Nefarian waited until the water coming from the faucet was pleasantly warm by draconic standards before setting him down in the sink and washing the orange salve from the whelp’s eyes.  
  
The steaming water seemed to soothe Atramedes, as the hysterical peeps had stopped, although he continued to tremble from head to tail.  
  
Nefarian took a washcloth and made sure his eyes were clean.  Knowing the whelp couldn’t see him, he nevertheless did his best to appear calm despite the panicked thudding of his heart.  "That dimwit Maloriak,“ he muttered.  "That’s the last time I let him experiment on a dragon.  I mean, his schemes rarely work, but usually they just do nothing, not…this.”  
  
“M-master?” Atramedes stammered.  "Wh-why is it so d-dark?“  
  
Guilt constricted his throat.  Blaming Maloriak was simply an excuse.  Nefarian was the one who made the eccentric alchemist into a dragonspawn in the first place.  It was his own quest to create the perfect dragon that led to this.    
  
"It’s all right,” he said hoarsely.  "Don’t be frightened.“  He lifted the quivering whelp up out of the sink and rubbed a towel over him.  
  
"What happened?  I was supposed to see really good, but now I can’t see at all!” he wailed.  
  
“I know.  I know.  I’m sorry.”  As the words left his lips, he wondered how long it had been since he’d said them.  Sorry? The Lord of Blackrock wasn’t “sorry” about anything.  
  
Yet he was.  The feeble sliver of conscience he had retained after millenia of the Old Gods’ whispers burned in his chest, and at that moment more than anything he wished he could turn back time and stop this from happening.  
  
Atramedes pawed at his eyes, which could no longer see but still produced plenty of tears.  
  
Nefarian grabbed a dry towel and wrapped the whelp up in it, then laid him against his shoulder and began to pat his back.  "There, there,“ he murmured.  "Don’t worry.  Nobody’s going to hurt you ever again.  I’ll see to that.” _I won’t hurt you again, either_ , he added silently.  
  
Atramedes continued to weep, clinging to him as if he would never let go.  
  
The whelp’s heartbroken sobs were like daggers in his chest.  "I’m sorry,“ he whispered.  "I’m so sorry.”   He dared speak no more, afraid of betraying the emotion that threatened to close his throat.

* * *

 

Nefarian planned to sleep in his human form that night.  Atramedes had been glued to his side all day, dissolving into terrified peeps if they weren’t touching at all times.  
  
“Now, this is just for tonight,” Nefarian said gruffly as he made a nest of blankets for the whelp against the headboard of his ornate four-poster bed.  "Tomorrow night you’ve got to go back to the rookery with the other whelps.“  
  
"Okay,” Atramedes said forlornly.  
  
Nefarian changed into pajamas of jet black silk and doused the candles before getting into bed.  "Sleep well,“ he muttered.  
  
Atramedes made a quiet chirping noise.  
  
All was silent for the next few minutes except for the whelp’s uneven breathing and the Old Gods urging Nefarian to destroy him. Sleep did not seem likely to come any time soon.  
  
"Master?”  
  
Nefarian opened his eyes.  "Yes?“  
  
"You…  You’re my father, right?”  
  
Nefarian swallowed before answering.  "Technically.  I mean, your mother isn’t one of my mates.  You were conceived in the lab, but genetically…yes.  I sired you.“  
  
"Oh.  My mothers said I could choose to stay with them, or come to Blackrock with you.”  
  
“That’s the arrangement, yes.”  
  
Atramedes was quiet then.  
  
Finally, Nefarian asked, “Why did you choose to come here?”  
  
“I heard you had a lot of books.  I like to read.  I mean…I liked to read, before…”  He made a noise like a hiccup and started to cry again.  
  
Nefarian sighed and reached over in the dark to put a hand on his back.  "I’m sorry.“  
  
Atramedes scrambled toward him and burrowed into the crook of his arm.  "I’m so scared!  The voices say I’m useless now and should just die!”  
  
Nefarian gave up all pretense of stern distance and cradled the sobbing whelp against his chest.  "I know, I know.  I hear them, too. But I’m not going to hurt you.  I promise.  I’ll take care of you.  It won’t be easy, but we’ll figure something out.“  He patted Atramedes’ quaking back.  "And I…  I can read to you.  If you want.  Out loud.”  
  
“You will?” came the muffled reply against his chest.  
  
“Sure.  So you’ll still know what’s in those books.”  
  
“I…  I’d like that.”  Atramedes’ tears began to subside at last.  
  
“Now get some sleep.  It’s been a long day.”  Nefarian settled back into the pillows and closed his eyes.  
  
The whelp tucked his head against his father’s shoulder and was soon snoring softly.


End file.
